She was dressed in black
by perra95
Summary: „Flint's dead. Spinnet's dead. Weasley's dead. MacDougal's dead. Macmillan's dead. Terry's dead. Bridget's dead. Tracy's dead. I was responsible for them!" A meeting, a conversation, a person who doesn't want to apologize but a person who wants to be understood.


Hello everyone, this is my first _uploaded_ story **but not my own**! It is a legalized translation (I´m a german, so if you find any mistakes or something like that I would be happy if you tell me!) ;)  
The original story is called "sie trug schwarz" and from the talented author **NovaIxioXerces** who has uploaded it here: _ fanfiction/autor/201453/276552/_  
I hope you enjoy it!:)

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**She was dressed in black**

_„And then I´ll burn that stupid hat."_

She was dressed in black.

In a room full of kitsch and pink, of angels and heart garlands and full of sparkling real fairies, she was dressed in black. The teacup in front of her was white – with a little pink pattern what seemed to be flowers. The tea cosy was overdrawn with pastel stripes – in pink. The garlands above her glowed pink. And she... Like a fat black toad she sat on one of the wooden chairs with the pink emoluments and leaned her elbows onto the the pink covered table. The contrast stung in the eyes.

And yet Hermione understood why she had asked her to come to _this _place. Madam Puddifoot's tea shop offered, next to different sorts of kitsch, tea and biscuits also a few small, hidden niches for an intimate get-together. None of them wanted an intimate get-together, _especially not them_, there she was certain. But doubtless she could waive being seen by someone, when she was meeting _her_. For that, this place was almost perfect. She did not know anybody, especially in these times, who would visit Madame Puddifoot's tea shop. Seriously, who would do that? Everyone was busy. Busy with mourning, busy with the rebuilding, busy with the most different assignments, but certainly not with cuddling and and snogging. And even if – first they would have to find her in that tiny niche.

Hermione herself was dressed in black, too, out of respect for Fred, for Tonks, for Lupin, Collin, Lavender and everyone else who had lost their life in the war to defeat Voldemort.

When she entered the room and headed for the table at the other end of the room, half hidden with a hedge of magic, red roses, she was aware of the fact that she, dressed in her black jeans, the black shirt and the plain black Hogwarts robe, seemed just as out of place as the person who had invited her to come.

In front of the table she stopped, giving the free chair a short look but resisted to sit down – she did not want to stay for long.

„Hello Parkinson", she said brusquely and cursed herself a moment later for the fact that she

couldn´t hide the irritation completely, that had accompanied her the whole way from the ruin that once was Hogwarts to Hogsmeade until she had reached Madame Puddifoot's.

After a moment, Pansy Parkinson looked up. Close, she did not looked like a fat, black toad anymore – but like a black toad.

Her black cloak stung appalling with the chair cover, the roses and the group of fairies who hovered over their heads, giggling boneheaded.

The cloak was plain, no tight cutting, no decorative border, no frills, no precious embroideries, but simply long, practical, black. It made her look even more unsuitable.

„Granger", she answered the greeting and did not bothered to use any polite voice her parents could have possibly taught her. „Sit down."

Hermione could feel how her counterpart scrutinized her intensely. Demonstrative she pushed forward her lower lip.

„I don´t think that´ll be necessary!" she answered determined and suppressed the urge to cross her arms before her chest.

Pansy herself did not take her head from her interlaced hands and her gaze did not move.

"Oh, well,_ I_ do! Sit down, Granger!"

Actually Hermione wanted to reply in a more caustic way, really, but the last days and weeks, the obsequies, the funerals, the depressive atmosphere at the burrow, the slow rebuilding she lunged herself into because she could not stand the silence, all that had took so much energy that, after a short, silent duel, she just surrendered and sat down.

Pansy acknowledged the gesture with a triumphant smirk, but even that was thinner than usual.

In the background, probably in the kitchen, some tableware rattled.

„I took the freedom to order some tea. If you want something beside the scones, you just have to cry for Puddifoot. Well, maybe not even that. I heard she can read your mind," Parkinson started the talk in the most casual chatting voice. It seemed incredible insincere, especially if you considered that she wore black, her dark hair dashed greasy down on her shoulders and her eyes seemed to rest deep in the shadows. In a strange way she reminded Hermione of Sirius, when he was caged at Grimmauld place, but she would have to search for the similarities with a loupe

She herself did not want to do gossip. Especially not with the former Slytherin, who, during the last six school years, had not left one opportunity to spread gossip. Not with her but about her.

„What do you want, Parkinson?" she demanded gritty. For the moment she did not care how rude she sounded, her mood drew closer to a deep. Not quire like the one she had three days ago when they pulled Anthony's body out of the debris but still enough.

Pansy looked at Hermione for a moment before she answered. Slowly she raised her head, loosened her fingers and lowered her arms onto the table.

„I'm not here to apologize, if it´s that, what you've expected," she said and sounded that determined that Hermione was sure she was serious.

„I haven't anything to reproach myself for."

Wary Hermione puckered up her mouth and yet still crossed her arms. Actually she had reckoned with an apology. But of course she should have known it. After all, that young woman in front of her was still Pansy Parkinson.

„There are people who would represent another opinion," she answered. She struggled to hide her upcoming rage .

„Bet, you´re one of them, aren't you?", Pansy responded dryly and reached for her cup to drink another pointedly leisured sip.

One glance when she put down the cup and Hermione could see not a clear liquid but a light, milky-brown fluid. She did not want to know how much milk Pansy usually used for one cup of tea. One look in her own cup told her that at least here the woman had contained herself.

Yet she did not touch the cup.

„You know Granger, I don't give a shit," the other continued, as if Hermione had raised an objection, „I'd do it again."

Hermione's next words were spoken accented acrid: „_That_ does not surprise me."

„'Course it doesn't. Potter's your friend, not mine."

„Indeed."

Pansy snorted angrily and took another reach, this time for a scone.

Instead of eating it, she pressed her short gnawed nails into the soft biscuit and squashed it in her hand.

For a long moment her focus seemed to rest completely on the innocent, golden thing between her fingers.

„Fact is," she finally said, „I had my reasons."

„Really?" Her voice sounded even more bitter than Hermione already expected it to be.

During the last weeks, since the final battle had ended, she actually had not really though about Pansy's behaviour. Other things had caught her attention that night. But now, when she was confronted with it, she disliked the thought of sitting here on that table with its pink tablecloth together with Pansy Parkinson and talking to her, while she was acting as if her action that night was the only reasonable thing that was to be done.

„Believe it or don´t, Granger."

Pansy`s hand squashed the scone so much that the soft crust gushed out between her thumb and forefinger.

„I was, you might have missed the fact heroically, head girl that time. Snape gave me Longbottom as a partner, Salazar knows why. Well, you know that Longbottom didn't showed his face at that point anymore, apart from his performance as Potter's fangirl in the Great Hall. There was no substitute."

„So?"

Pansy lifted one eyebrow. It could have looked elegant if she had cared for her appearance. She also turned up her mouth to a crooked smile. Distinct dimples stood out against the corner of her mouth and made the whole gesture even more ugly.

„Come on, Granger. You've been prefect. If the old spinach chin was still alive, you would have spent the last year at Hogwarts and ended up as head girl. Magnificent, brave and with heroic bush... – er, hair. But that's not my point. You _know_ the duties of a head girl."

She snorted. „"If you´re still that wretched Gryffindor Know-it-all you've been the first six years, you probably know them better than I do. At least the theory."

Hermione's grab around her upper arms became tighter without her really recognize it – Pansy had hit a sore spot. Likely, she would have been head girl indeed. Actually Professor McGonagall had offered her the position just a few days ago. She did not accept yet because she was not entirely sure if that would be such a great idea. She was not Harry who hurriedly grabbed the offers everybody threw at him since Kingsley was Minister. But of course – Hermione knew the duties of a head girl, at least the theory. And Hermione also knew that she thought of Pansy Parkinson as the most unsuitable choice for the position. Unflinchingly she curled her lips and finally answered: „I did not know it was a function of a head girl to hand over somebody to Voldemort-"

„Don´t speak his name!", Pansy burst out but Hermione certainly was not impressed by that.

„He´s dead, Parkinson. What are you afraid of? Of a name?"

Pansy did not answer. Instead she also took her other hand to twitch the scone between her fingers.

Her glance still rested on Hermione – and she did not look thrilled.

„So? Since when it is a head girl's duty to sell people to Voldemort? Especially if you know that Voldemort will kill that person?"

Hermione could hear Pansy's teeth gnashing. Probably she was supposed to hear it. She ignored it. Parkinson had invited her to this place so she would not let herself get worked up. She just could not give Pansy that triumph.

„It would've been one dead." the dark-haired finally said. With more force than needed she ripped out one chunk of the scone and let it fall onto the table. „How many are there now, Granger? Two hundred ninety-three? Increasing trend?"

Unwilling Hermione nodded. Of course Pansy used the number that included both, resistance fighters _and_ Death Eaters. Yet the numbers were accurate. And there were still people missing, she knew that and one glimpse at Pansy's features told her that she knew, too.

„What was the use of that battle, Granger?" Pansy finally asked, anxious to adopt a threatening tone. „Potter, that was it for. And what did it achieve? Yes, of course, the Dark Lord´s dead, congrats! So what?"

Of course Hemione could replied something but Pansy's eyes told her clearly to shut up for now and let her finish. At least this one time-

„I´ll tell you. Crabbe´s dead."

Hermione dismissed the decision she just had made before she even recognized that she did it. Furious she leaned forward and said with her best know-it-all voice: „He inflamed the fiendfyre himself!"

Unimpressed Pansy continued as if she did not hear Hermione's interjection.

„Theodore's dad's dead."

„He was a Dead Eater!"

„Flint's dead. He wasn't a Death Eater. Spinnet's dead. She wasn't even at Slytherin. Professor Snape's dead. He was one of yours or what is it Potter's telling? Professor Lupin's dead. His wife's dead. Both of them certainly belonged to you. Brown's dead. Goldstein's dead. That weasel – Weasley, sorry – is dead. MacDougal's dead. Macmillan's dead. Terry's dead. Bridget's dead.

Tracy's dead. I could continue like this for hours, you know? Don't believe I could forget even one of the names."

„Pansy-"

„Spare your ‚Pansy'! _I _was the head girl! _I_ was responsible for them. At least for the pupils. For the Slytherins even voluntarily, but also for the remaining lot. All of them could've survived! Only one sacrifice would've been sufficient. Maybe you were with Potter and Weasley on your holy mission or whatever – but that doesn't mean that you were the only ones who had a task to fulfil. I had to try it!"

„I understand." Hermione said but simultaneously she was not sure if she really did. Pansy was a fast speaker and the information between the lines were new, so she did not even knew if she had understood them correctly.

„But tell me, Pansy, what kind of life would have _that_ been?

„It would've _been_ one!"

„Under Voldemort's regime? Oh, come on! We both know what happened under Thicknesse, even if he was just a puppet. The show trials, the snatchers, the kidnappings and murders... Do you really think that would have only happened to the muggleborns in the future you would have lived in?

She could see that Pansy needed all her strength but she only dropped the scone and leaned back on her chair, pointedly slow and pointedly casual.

„Granger?" she asked quietly in a voice that implicated that she did not won that conversation yet. „What did you witnessed the last year, huh? People are talking about some kind of artefacts. Camping in the middle of nowhere. Seemed it was quite lonely. Only you, Scarface and Won-Won-Weasel. How much is true 'bout that, huh? Doesn't matter. You weren't here, were you? Did you ever used the Imperius? Did you ever commanded someone to strip and step into the lake to go for a swim, _in the middle of February_? Like Mad-Eye, Crouch actually, did with the spider? You remember the spider, don't you?"

Yes, she did. She did remember that day very clearly. And she had a vague suspicion where this would lead her. Scandalized she opened her mouth but Parkinson did not give her the opportunity to protest. With a sharp voice she continued.

„Did you ever cursed someone with the Cruciatus and listened how he screamed his mind to the heavens? Schoolmates, acquaintances, friends? Did you ever saw first graders who tortured each other because their teacher told them to do so? Oh no, don't ‚Pansy!' me! I'm sick of it. I could vomit, wail, laugh, all at the same time but instead of that I'm sitting here in that pink nightmare, so do me the favour and swallow the ‚Pansy' like the courteous little mudblood you are!"

„Parkinson!"

Pansy leaned back even further. Virtuously smirking she stroked back one dark strand of hair that had fell across her face.

„What? Come on, there were times you were proud of being a mudblood, weren't you?"

That came hard. Because even if Hermione didn't know how that Slytherin had knew it, she was right. There indeed were times when Hermione boasted about being proud to be a mudblood. And she had been serious about that. She glanced to her arm, that she had covered with her old, unfittingly school cloak a lot recently, even during the surprisingly high temperatures of this year's early summer. She pursed her lips and did not replied. Eventually she was still proud of not being a pure blood but muggleborn. About being a muggleborn who had managed to prove herself. She had to swallow. Parkinson probably saw her discomfort and her glance to her arm but for the moment she did not care. It did not matter if her counterpart saw her weakness – after this talk they would hopefully never ever meet again.

When she looked up and had a brief eye contact with Pansy, her suspicion was confirmed. She did seemed to have count one and one together and was probably thinking about rubbing it in now or later some time. To Hermione's surprise she seemed to keep it for herself when she started speaking. At least for now.

„I know what the Dark Lord's regime involves, Granger, don´t worry. I know it only too well. But that doesn't release me from my responsibility, does it? And that does imply not only the Slytherins but also the ungrateful bunch._ But not Potter. _Why should it include Potter? Because he tells his plans everybody who asks him politely? And it isn't like everything fine now that Potter did his own thing. Actually everything lays in ashes and you can´t deny that or you kid yourself. It would be a lie too, if I would say I didn't knew what would happen. That's why I would've sold Potter. And that's why I would do it over and over again."

„Did you asked me to come to tell me this?" Hermione asked after a brief silence. By now she was willing to stand up and leave. She did not want to have to think about Pansy's words, which started ti make sense to her now. Especially she did not want to think about it in this place. Not in front of the girl – the young woman – that had bullied and humiliated her for over six years.

In the meantime Parkinson slowly leaned forward. She did not stopped looking at Hermione while she took another scone. She did not seemed to recognize that she started to rip another little biscuit.

„No." she said finally. The cold fury that had seethed in her words minutes ago was banished completely out of her voice. „I just assumed that you wanted to hear that three little magic words I won´t say. And I wanted you to understand why. After all you´re not your little weasel-friend with the brainpower of a teaspoon.

„Do not call him that!" Hermione responded passionless despite the repeated insult against Ron, but she lacked the anger she felt minutes ago. Resigned she sank further down the chair, her arms crossed - searching for help - before her chest. She was sick of the insults but the same time she was sure she could not stop her counterpart to spill them out so she could just resign herself for it.

Instead of showing any sign of reaction to her interjection, Pansy suddenly changed the topic, „Word has it that the rebuilding of the castle is going well and Hogwarts will reopen, starting in September. What's the deal with that?"

Hermione perked her eyebrows up in a sceptical gesture, primarily because unlike Parkinson she was not able to lift her browns independent from each other. Not that she was particular jealous.

She did not think Pansy's change of subject was overly successful. Most likely it was a bad planned camouflage - and actually she was not willing to go into it.

„I think ‚well' depends on the point of view, Parkinson," she answered cautious. „You would know that if you would have the leisure to take part in the repair work."

Pansy's laugh was exactly as Hermione remembered it to be like - high-pitched, mocking and utterly annoying. Pity that Pansy did not care but took her time to laugh at Hermione appreciatively.

Offended Hermione leaned forwards. She did not loose her arms but leaned onto the table to bent her torso even more forward. A few wisps of her long brunette curls, sweaty and dirty, nearly slipped into her cup and wiped over the plate with the scones.

"That is not funny!", she hissed upset. She was on the point of leaving but before she could enforce her decision, Pansy made a move.

Her fingers still holding the biscuit, she shoved her hands past the plate so they brushed against Hermione's arm. Determined she raised her chin, the points of their noses nearly touched each other. Again, with that gloomy sparkle in her eyes she reminded Hermione of Sirius. Pansy showed her ugliest smirk. Unaffected she looked into her eyes. Hermione starred back.

"Yes it is." Pansy finally replied. With a short movement she guided the scone to her mouth, bit of one half of it and chewed on the chunk. Without breaking the eye contact, without even blinking, she eventually swallowed. "It is. It's really funny. I's so funny I could spew. But tell me, Granger.."

Hermione didn't flinch, even as Pansy pointed with her finger directly at her without releasing the biscuit. The scone – respectively the remaining part of it – nearly touched her lips. She ignored the gesture gallantly because she was also busy with holding the eye contact. Slowly her eyes started to burn and to water but she forced herself to keep them opened.

Parkinson blinked first. Just once, for a second. Immediately afterwards she put the remaining scone into her mouth. Hermione could not quite see how she chewed but she could hear the gnawing sound that only stopped when she swallowed.

For one moment she interrupted the eye contact to look at a point below Hermione's nose. Carefully she licked her lips. In fact Hermione wondered shy she did that but before she could ask, Pansy looked up again. The grin was vanished but the sparkling in her eyes had stayed. It appeared angry but considerably more bitter.

„Tell me, Granger," she continued, „why should I participate at the rebuilding? What part should I take? The one of the filthy little traitor bitch nobody trust to not do a hand's turn? The one where everyone spits after just because I had the balls to say something that night? Do you think I didn't know how they talk 'bout me at Hogwarts? My point of view doesn't interest anyone. I'm a Slytherin, that by itself is a sacrilege, did you already forget that? Uhh – The Speaking Hat had sorted me into the House of Evil – reason enough to despise me since that day, because an eleven-year old most certainly is the next Dark Lord. I'm the lousy, rotten little snake that had spent the most of her school-time not to hide what she's been thinking about everyone else, like the noble Gryffindors do or the wise Ravenclaws or the precious Hufflepuffs. And oh, I tried to sent Potter to his doom. The reason doesn't matter. I'm just Pansy Pugface, the Slytherin slut."

If possible, she came even closer. So close Hermione could feel her breathe on her skin while she spoke. The tiny hair in her neck lined up but Hermione forced herself not to move, not even an inch, and to keep a straight face.

„Don't think I didn't know where my place is, Granger." Pansy continued and a the bad smell of her breathe hit Hermione's nose.

„It´s an honour to be sorted into Slytherin. But at the same time it's a stigma, exactly like that red-golden Gryffindor-emblem on your chest. You've never cared to take the role everyone intended for you, mudb-... Granger. Give me one good reason why I should do it."

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, simply anything to avoid her dumbfounded gape but Pansy suddenly leaned back. The smell of peppermint stayed.

„Apart from that, there are plenty of other things that have to be done, or am I wrong? What about your friends? I heard that they've built a new suicide squat, in the name of the minister of magic?"

Hermione took a deep breath. The smell of black tea that guttered up to her displaced the peppermint scent. Slowly she leaned back, too. In the process, her hair slid away from the teacup. They left thin traces – apparently they had took a bath in the tea after all. She should take a shower when she arrived at home.

„It´s not a suicide squat. Mr Shacklebolt had simply invited them to become auror trainees."

„And they're _so_ qualified, without even taking their N.E.W.T. or doing the acceptance test. Longbottom didn't even do transfiguration."

Protest burgeoned inside her but Hermione swallowed it determined. Pansy was right in that point – the nomination to become a auror trainee was primarily a nominal honorarium, based on their achievements during the war, not because of their skills, even if both Harry and Ron would have disagreed vehement.

At least – she clearly remembered the argument that had burst out after the nomination and that would last until Hermione could be sure both og them would be okay – just because they both had the same opinion it did not mean that Hermione would do Pansy the favour and freely admit it.

Impatient she grabbed one of her wet curls and twisted it with her forefinger while she sent a calculating glance to Pansy. It wandered from her eyes

across her pug nose and her thin pale lips, which took turns at compressing and scrolling insides.

Only then she took notice of the collar of her top, that flashed from underneath her black robe. Maybe the black fabric had just slipped so now she could see the layer below – which was lime green. Wary she lifted her eyebrows.

„Just because Mr Shacklebolt appointed them to trainees it does not mean that they already get assignments of fully qualified aurors. They are trainees and they still have to learn a lot. And I am sure that they are panting to do just that." she said and ignored the ‚We're talking 'bout Hairy I-get-everything-shoved-down-my-ass-Potter' Pansy tossed in, „but what about you?"

Pansy smiled airy and again dimples showed up. But that time it appeared rather satisfied than ugly. Hermione lifted her browns even further up – this time out of surprise.

„I took my N.E.W.T." she answered. Her hand grabbed the teacup but she did not drink, „the results should arrive soon. Until then – Rye," the way Pansy pronounced that name made Hermione think she should know him. Exerted she tried not only to listen concentrated but also to look like it while Pansy continued, „still lies at Mungos. I like to be near him, also after visiting time."

Cautious Hermione nodded. She could count together one and one. And even if she just picked up the thought, her subconscious already puzzled over the idea to ask around what Pansy Parkinson was doing outside the-

„I hope you know that I´ll hex you into next week if in the future one of your friends puts his nose in my extracurricular activities." Pansy tossed in with a voice of a witch that knew exactly what her opponent was thinking.

While Hermione still wondered if her plan was that obviously, Pansy already nodded, dimples showing in the corner of her mouth.

„Whatever your question is, Granger," she said intentionally and put the cup untouched back on the table to grab a scone instead, "the answer's yes."

Her dimples deepened together with the grin that showed her magically bleached teeth. "But what about you? That I haven't seen Longbottom, Weasel-ley and Potter at the N.E.W.T.-special audit didn't surprise me. They give a shit about their graduation because everybody blows everything they want up their asses because of their exploits. They would do the same with you, we don't have to argue 'bout that. Fact is, you're the one of the Gryffindors that would most likely give a shit on that. So, why didn't I see you at the exams?"

While lapsing into a summoning silence she once again searched for eye contact impudently. When Hermione refused it she rolled her eyes and took a lusty bite of the biscuit between her fingers. This time she literally celebrated the act of eating, even if she did not display more manners than before.

Hermione herself was kinda happy about that, although Pansy was not a courtesy herself. The business with the scone as well as the detailed remark had bought her time – time she used to decide if and how she wanted to answer. Eventually she dropped the strand of hair and grabbed her cup of tea – which was cold by now, what might have been the reason Pansy did not drink hers but it was nothing that could not been changed by a simply heat charm.

Unceremoniously she got her new wand out. Birch wood, ten and a half inch, plain, dragon heartstring and brand new, one of the first Ollivander produces after the war. It felt much more pleasent than the one of Bellatrix Lestrange.

Under Pansy's alert glance she poked her cup and caused the liquid to heat up, then she put the wand back into her sleeve, which slipped up a little bit during the process.

Officiously she stroked the fabric back and took a sip. The tea was pungent, the milk softened the flavour properly and the sugar supported the taste without daubing it. Although she could not get something out of Madame Puddifoot's – the tea was good.

The idea of Pansy could try to poison her had certainly come to her mind but she was not that paranoid. She did not _want_ to be that paranoid. Besides that Madame Puddifoot was somewhere in here, too, judging by the clinking that always started to become less noisy when they were speaking, she was in the kitchen. And Hermione did think that Madame Puddifoot - even if she probably was not able to read minds - was capable of keeping tabs of her taproom.

With a soft rattle she put the cup back onto the table.

"I was not at the exams because most likely I would not have passed." she answered. "And do not think I did not know what they say about _me_. I am the little Gryffindor-grind that would subsist on books if it was possible, ain't I? I think you have expressed it a little more … _consequent_ back then."

Pansy snorted quietly but when Hermione met her eyes she seemed to be more amused than offended. She rolled her eyes. "Anyway, believe it or do not but I'm missing a whole year of subject matter and even if I had found the time to take a look into my books the last months, I do not have the preparations only a capable teacher can give me. And even if I would not have failed – I would not have achieved my expectations. Therefore I do the most obvious."

"You're a good grind and repeat the the school year."

"Exactly."

"Laudably." Pansy's voice sounded searing but she still smirked, with her dimples in the mouth corners and her eyes twinkling amused instead of derisive. Mockingly, yes indeed, but the component of the last years that had always unnerved her was missing.

The awareness hit her so abruptly as if she had stepped in a trick stair. Before she could prevent it she darted a quizzical glance at Pansy and reached out her arm in a gesture she did not know what to do with only an instant later. Anxious to keep her countenance she grabbed, following an intuition, one of the scones.

„I'm wondering why you do that to yourself. New class, everyone treats you like a goddess, not like the little grind-witch you are, just because you're Potter's brain while they're reading in the Dayly Prophet what kind of undies you're wearing."

This time it was Hermione who glanced alertly at her opponent. She looked once again over the greasy hair, the black cloak, the teeth she might have treated too much with a bleach spell, the dimples, the pug nose and the eyes which were lying in the shadows under the thick eyebrows. Besides of her blowsy appearance this still was Pansy Parkinson in all her facets – dark hair, pug nose, scornful grin – who Hermione had learned to hate over the last six years at Hogwarts. And yet – something had changed. Something essentially. Something that has caused the reason why she was told to come here and why she was still sitting here.

She shrugged decidedly ledger, even if she did not feel ledger.

"One reason more to do it and to show that I am still Hermione Granger."

"Are you, mudblood?"

Hermione furled her eyebrows and searched for Pansy's glance to return it – who unfortunately looked to her arm first and then into her eyes. She pressed her lips together.

"Why should I not be?" she responded and could not exorcise the offended tone until after the question. "I made experiences and grew with it but that does not make me less Hermione Granger – the mudblood if you want it that way - than I was before. What about you?"

"I'd say-" Her gaze dropped, Pansy angled for one the biscuits on her plate, maybe to gain some time but she did not eat the scone. "I made experiences and grew with it but that doesn't make me less Pansy ‚Pugface' Parkinson."

Hermione lifted her eyebrows at that. For a brief moment she recalled the Pansy Parkinson who had terrorized her for six years. Pansy Parkinson, the toad with the pug nose held high, the dirty grin, the ugly dimples and the devious twinkle in her eyes. Then reality interfered – Pansy Parkinson who had changed in some way she could not name yet. But maybe – and she was surprised by the thought herself – she was willing to learn the reasons of this change.

„Do you want to change it?"

„What the seven years have done with me?"

Pansy twisted her mouth. This time not to a grin. Instead she shrugged.

„You remember how I took my N.E.W.T.'s?" she asked deliberately and leaned forward to support herself with her ellbows.

Hermione nodded shortly and waited for the upcoming explanation.

Concerning this matter she had her thoughts – one of them contained the lime green shirt under her cloak – but she had not expect the one Pansy gave her now.

"I'll fail."

The galleon of knowledge dropped. Immediately.

„You will repeat the school year."

Pansy nodded.

„You got it."

"Laudably."

Pansy's laugh still was high-pitched, mocking and with this utterly annoying connotation – but this time Hermione just shook her head in disapproval. A tiny smirk sneaked onto her face but she was not sure if her opponent could see it.

A scratch of wooden legs on the floor filled the room when Pansy rose. Somewhere in the background she could hear the dishes rattle a bit louder.

„The visiting time starts soon, I have to go."

Hermione nodded in understanding but Pansy did not bid goodbye. Instead she paused for a moment when she had already turned her back on her.

"And Granger?"

"Yes?"

"You remember that guy from the year above us? Slytherin, shorter than Potter, blonde, terrible accent? The one who lost his arm in the battle? He's working at the ministry as a healer for the aurors. Next time when you go to check if Potter and Weasley are still alive, shit on the colour of his school cloak and pay him a visit. Maybe he's interested in your arm."

„Pansy."

„Don't waste your breathe."

„What are you going to do now?"

She shrugged.

„First I'll visit my brother. Then … Maybe then I'll burn that stupid speaking hat."


End file.
